Warrior
by Farthingale
Summary: Based on my impression of various characters in KOF, and my shipper's instinct. Leona Heidern is taken under King's wing, the latter seeing a young woman trapped by her circumstances and her mind.
1. Chapter 1

**Setting:_ King of Fighters tournament, Japan, 1996._**

King didn't look up from buffing the shoes when the door to the suite opened, and the new entrant limped in, gracefully but with noticeable pain. She was more or less King's height, but appeared much taller as a result of her indigo-tinted hair being tied up into a wild and abundant topknot. She sat down on the room's other bed and matter-of-factly took off her combat boots. Then, from a canvas bag at the foot of that bed, she removed a round metal tin – King knew it was metal from the noise it made when the lid was unfastened – and began applying a heady herbal gel onto her injured calf muscle.

For three minutes and twenty-two seconds the two went about their tasks, as though inhabiting different dimensions (although only one of the two had the impression that this was indeed the case). On the twenty-third second, King's head was raised, champagne-blonde curtains bouncing lightly from pale eyes.

"Quite a fight today. I'm glad I wasn't the _other _chap."

The Amazon was yet preoccupied and gave no response.

"Oh that's right. You don't speak. You're the strong and the silent… You know people talk about you like a Lovecraft novel around here? It's a brilliant way to psyche out the opponent, have them believe you prowl the nights, searching for easy blood."

The other's head turned an inch towards King, flashed a look that seemed pained for an instant, then dismissive, then once more in some other plane of existence.

"Well," King said with a good-spirited chuckle, "I'm not afraid of you."

The icy eyes focussed on her then, and a crisp, low voice, almost a whisper, followed. "You should be." It wasn't a threat; it was an apology.

For the first time, King noticed the fighting gloves that had been so carefully placed on the boots when they had been removed. The fingers were stained, old colouring in some areas, new in others. Layers of carnage. But the woman's hands were clean.

"Why are you here?" King was genuinely curious; most of the people she'd met in the King of Fighters matches couldn't wait to tell her about their skills in the ring, or regale her with tales of their great victories, and even the quieter ones gave her menacing stares across the room, I'm-gonna-git-you-sucka type stares. Not this one. If the woman wasn't such a careful study in _tabula rasa_, King might think she was miserable.

"My father sent me."

_Was that_, thought King, _an edge of distaste in her use of the paternal moniker?_

"Your father?"

No reply. So, the well must have run ––

"Heidern."

King grimaced, as a stinging memory or two arrived unbidden. But this blue-haired warrior didn't look much like the spawn of Mr Military's loins. Still, that would explain her hanging around with those two official brutalities, Ralf and Clark. She had seen the three of them together at a table, the men reminiscing and barking with laughter, the woman with her head bowed, staring into a drink, or the wood of the table, or perhaps her past.

"Heidern's your dad? My condolences. You know…" King got up, walked over to the other bed and, despite the woman's body language and the vibes she was sending off telling King to go drown herself, sat down beside her. "There's reason to talk beyond senseless chatter, if that's why you're so mum all the time. Talking is the most advanced information transference device we've yet developed as a species. Your outfit says that might make sense to you." She was in short khaki fatigues, the collar on her high-buttoned shirt turned up.

"Your outfit says you're either a gigolo or a waiter," came the murmur.

King gave a peel of laughter. "It's _alive_!" From a purple silk boutonnière, King withdrew a red rose, put it in the woman's lap. "Lady Lovecraft, a gift for you. Thorny, but quite appealing." Rising, King strolled towards the door, dress-shoes gleaming. At the door, she paused. "See you later, Leona Heidern."


	2. Chapter 2

"You've got to be joking…" Mary Ryan – AKA 'Blue Mary', for reasons known to a select few – lounged back in the white garden chair, even though the metal frame suggested every posture but the one she forced upon it.

King matched the outdoor furniture well, the cream cocktail suit sending a warm albedo into the eyes of passers-by. Her staff of adoring waitresses having been deserted for the moment (hopefully keeping the restaurant ship-shape), King was forced to fetch her own drinks, and thus was nursing her martini as though it might be the last on Earth. She drew her eyes leisurely through the crowd.

"Not at all. I never joke about things of that nature."

"Okay, I'll bite…" Mary pulled her worn boots up onto the chair (again defying its designer's intentions) and leaned forward onto the table. "What do you expect to get from this?"

King tilted her head back, eyes closed, and let the mid-morning sun warm her face. "I'm not entirely certain. Such is the nature of intrigue and psychology. But…" She brought her chin down and she gave Mary a look that the other recognised well; it meant the aristocratic woman was showing a degree of honesty that she found embarrassing and therefore vaguely distasteful. "I think my influence might be valuable."

A smattering of collective laughter broke into their conversation from across the patio; Terry Bogard was entertaining a small group with amusing anecdotes from his adolescence. His eyes glanced over to the pair and Mary sent him an affectionate glance. King smiled too, but distractedly.

"She'll have gotten my present by now."

Mary's attention returned to her companion. "Present? What kind of present?" She then grinned devilishly and wagged her eyebrows, causing King to lurch forward and good-humouredly pat her across the forehead.

"Don't be obscene… You spend much too much time among those lascivious teammates of yours." She relaxed back again and crossed one dapper leg over the other. "It's a nice present. Wait and see."


	3. Chapter 3

Leona Heidern had indeed received King's offering; on entering her room after her early morning training session, she had spied the large, flat gift-box on her bed and had immediately suspected some ill-intent. After all, no one should be sending her packages – Ralf and Clark were in a nearby room and Heidern never sent anything, only made terse, succinct phone calls. Which likely meant that it was either a threat or a bomb, designed to remove her from the competition, perhaps sent by some unfamiliar rival of her surrogate father's.

The design of the parcel gave her pause: very thin, _too _thin for all but the most sophisticated of explosive devices. And if that were the case, surely the sender would not be so infantile as to hide it in a gift-box. With this in mind, Leona decided that, whatever the parcel contained, it would not be _dangerous _to open it. Unless, of course, it released some kind of poisonous powder (she was wearing gloves) or gas (she would shield her mouth with one gloved hand).

The box was cream, silk-covered cardboard. All its corners were undamaged, its original shape intact. It smelt of expense. And French vanilla. It was, Leona surmised, either sent by a woman or intended to charm one. She congratulated herself briefly on being above such things (the grain of the silk was fine and cool to the touch of her disrobed left hand). She delicately tucked her first two fingers beneath the parcel's lid (the silk continued on the underside) and kept the base still with the latter digits. Then she slid the halves apart, revealing a salmon pink interior of softest satin. The folds clearly hid further mysteries, and so, unthinking, she slid her mismatched hands into exploration.

They found neither a bomb, nor a threatening letter, nor an incriminatingly doctored photograph. What they exposed, however, gave Leona greater agitation than she would have experienced in the face of all of those evils.


	4. Chapter 4

Though outwardly as composed as a cat in a sunbeam, King was growing anxious over her gamble. Was it too much? Could the poor girl be beyond such simple pleasures? Might she be insulted by King's audacity? None of these responses fit her expectation, but when impatient, even the most rational of minds fly to whimsy.

"…And then I was all: 'Spider'! Pow, crack! And he was like: _Aaargh_, make it stop! And then I was: Ha HAH, _whammo_! And he was like: _Gahhhhh_…" Blue Mary collapsed like a curtain, groaning her impersonation of Iori Yagami. Mary got very excited when re-enacting her matches and had a propensity for hyperbole.

"And then you were all…"

"And _then _I was all: Bang bang! You're dead! And – _Hey_, King, did you just mock me?"

"Hm? Oh, I suppose I did. Sorry… my mind is elsewhere. _Mea culpa_."

Mary shrugged it off. "Nah, I think that's enough Me Chronicles for one day anyway. I know I start sounding like a Valley Girl on crack. Okay, a man walks into a bar, with a parakeet on his shoulder. He says to the barman – _Whoa!_"

"'Whoa'?" Then King followed Mary's gaze, swivelling in her chair. "Whoa."

The sun creating a halo around her thick, midnight blue mane, Leona was wearing King's present. And looking very uncomfortable about it indeed.


	5. Chapter 5

The dress was deep pine green and made up of three layers, all individually transparent, but collectively modest. It flared gradually from the waist and came, in the French country style, just below the knees. The sleeves were tight at the elbow, then split and floated insubstantially halfway over the hands of the dedicated military officer.

King held her breath at the splendour, simultaneously praising her designer's touch and praying that Mary was not about to shatter the moment with tomboyish laughter.

Even Leona's stance could not dampen the aristocrat's appreciation: her legs a strong foot apart, her one hand on the opposing elbow betrayed her unease. She looked, King decided, like someone who had never worn a dress, let alone a Parisian original. Nonetheless, she was wearing one now, and wearing it well.

Leona was being burnt, though, and it was not by the sun on her olive skin, but by the eyes of many of those present. Feeling noble, and (she admitted to herself) a little like a prince, King strode forward, eclipsing this heavenly body somewhat, and gestured for Leona to follow her. Which, to King's satisfaction, she did.

They spoke not a word on the way to the edge of the promenade, but once they reached the lookout point over the consummate hotel gardens, King breathed her judgement.

"You, madam, are exquisite."

Leona's head was bowed, though her spine was straight, and she seemed for a moment not to hear the compliment. Then she cast her eyes sideways at King, looking inexplicably wounded. "So this _was _you."

King drew in her glee, swallowed it, so that Leona would not misinterpret it. "It was."

The eyes shifted back over the gardens. "I see."

King felt very much like she needed to make amends, though why she should need to apologize for such a lovely (and expensive) gift was beyond her. "If you don't like the colour, I'm sure I – "

"Why are you gifting me?" The voice was soft but cold with restrained anger. "You don't even know me, or anything about me."

King was taken aback, but at the same time pleased at having accidentally stimulated something human.

"I know you're somehow related to Heidern, so I feel immediately sorry for you on that count. I know you fight a lot like he does, which means he trained you; only your movements are even more fluid and precise than his." (This drew a revealing glance of interest from under the dark brows.) "And I know I see something in you that intrigues me, but which I can't explain."

"It's called unease," came the murmured reply. "It's a kind of fear reaction the body has when it senses a predator."

King laughed, because she couldn't stop herself in time. "I'm hardly a helpless gazelle, you know! And you're wrong, it's not fear. Though you do remind me of a predator, Leona. A predator in a zoo. Puns aside, you seem cagey."

"Cages are very important sometimes…" She was losing steam, becoming distant.

"Is Heidern your zoo keeper? He's certainly no lion-tamer."

"It's not a _lion _that's inside of me…" She avoided the question entirely. Then she pushed her arms straight against the railing, hunching her shoulders. "I'm leaving. Thank you for the dress."

When she was gone, King felt the back of her neck and found that the hairs there had risen. Her heart too was showing the effects of adrenaline. She ran a hand through her fringe and over her crown, breathed out with gusto.

"_Zut alors_."


	6. Chapter 6

"What happened to your science project?" asked Mary with unintentional cruelty.

"I must be the H20 to her NA…"

"Huh?"

"Nevermind. Have you seen the Ikaris?"

"Yup. Your favourite friends just ordered a coupla brewskies…" Mary poked her thumb backward, towards a seating area obscured by large potted ferns. "Over yonder." King thanked her and started to pass, when Mary grabbed a jacketed arm from her seated position and squeezed. "Hey Kinglette… what's the plan, man? What do you want with Tweedles Dee and Dum?"

King shrugged her arm. "Don't worry about it." But Mary's considerable grip stayed put. King sighed. "I'm not causing trouble; I only plan to _talk _with them."

"_Talk_?"

"Yes. _Ça suffit_."

"Well… it could just be my wacky imagination, but I don't think those two are big conversationalists."

"Military types never are. Doesn't matter, I'll make sure I give them questions they can answer Yes or No to."

Mary's hand slipped reluctantly off her arm. "Be careful."

"Oh, I can handle those two."

Mary looked up into her friend's pale blue eyes. "I didn't mean them."

Ralf Jones and Clark Steel were lauging raucously together when she approached them. There were no beers, so either they had been downed or Mary had been skitting. When they saw her they fell quiet, went deadpan. They stared at her thus for a good few moments, Clark from under his cap's brim, and Ralf through shining curls that were working their way free of his grotty old bandana. Until finally a snort came from Ralf, a muffled cough from Clark, and their jocular spasms began anew.

King felt as though she were twelve years old again, standing with one arm on her hip, rolling her eyes while a sneer of derision took to her upper lip as though it were home. _Mary called it right_, she thought. Then aloud: "If you two were any more Lewis Carroll I'd have to find myself a backdoor rabbit hole." She knew they wouldn't get it; she was annoyed enough to want to make them feel belittled.

"Oh, _Queen_, you always look more like a penguin than a rabbit." Rubbing the tears from his eyes with a knuckle, Ralf wasn't even looking at her. Clark was chuckling under his breath, his eyes Raybanned from analyses. _These_, King noted with dismay, _are Leona's playmates._

Sparing no time to the effort of small talk, she lifted a third patio chair by the spine, turned it around, and slid regally into it – regal, even though she sat with her legs splayed on either side and her arms resting on the chair's back, under her chin. The pose was aggressive, masculine, casual and blunt; it made its point, evinced by the quite miraculous cessation in the jollity of those present. "Listen, you two may be walking recommendations for contraception, but you're also associates of Leona Heidern, and for that reason I'm obliged to speak with you."

Clark bristled and Ralf grimaced at her: "What _about _Leona?"

King knew she had to play this one cleverly; she couldn't let them know that, in reality, she was relying on them for help.


	7. Chapter 7

"Okay, I'll lay all my cards on the table," said King with a acquiescent hand gesture, intending no such stupidity. "A lot of people talk to me, tell me what's on their minds. It's because I've been a barman; they picture me cleaning out beer mugs and listening sagely. And a lot of them are talking to me about Leona, saying some things I feel the need to clarify."

Ralf, always the more garrulous of the pair, leaned forward. "Like what?"

"Many stories, most contradictory. They say, for instance, that she's the reason Heidern isn't here this year – in other words, that she assassinated him and took over command of you two; a prodigal heir to a bloody throne."

"_What? _What a – "

Clark touched his arm briefly, cautioned Ralf to listen further.

"Others say she's a daughter he trained, then found too troublesome and sent away for years, so that now she's come back to prove herself by winning the King of Fighters for him. And, my personal favourite, Leona _is _Heidern, turned into a woman by an ancient Japanese curse known as the Ranma no Shôjo, visited on him by Kyo Kusanagi after a disagreement at KOF 95."

King thought that was perhaps pushing it, that they'd start to laugh again, but Ralf only gaped, appalled. Clark slipped his thumb and forefinger beneath his shades, rubbed his eyes. "Your sources are imaginative. But they're far off: Leona is a fine soldier, that's all there is to it."

"No one's disputing that. What concerns them is Heidern's conspicuous absence."

"There's nothing dangerous in that, Heidern sent her in his place, to test her mettle with us."

"So you say. But is she the Next Generation or merely a coincidentally-monikered acolyte?" King knew they were paging desperately through their mental thesauruses to no avail, and bit back a smug smirk. They had, however, found the gist of her question. Clark spoke first.

"You can tell your nosy friends that Leona's last name is honorary – Heidern adopted her years ago."

Ralf continued the explanation vehemently. "He _saved _her when her parents were killed. It was pretty heroic, if you ask me, takin' on all that responsibility alongside his career."

_Yeah, I'll bet he's a real saint_, thought King scathingly. But at least it made sense how, her fighting technique aside, she experienced Leona and Heidern as quite disparate quantities. "So then," she chuckled, getting up slowly, "I suppose I can dispel all those rumours that she's a vampire, werewolf or dragon-half." Something in Ralf's eyes, something oddly approaching compassion, flitted and was gone, giving her pause. She did not know what to make of that, if it _was _really what she saw and not the beginnings of drunkenness. "Thanks boys, you've been a veritable Magic 8-Ball of lucidity. _Ciao._"

"_Chow_," said Ralf sourly. "Don't break a nail or anything."


	8. Chapter 8

All eyes were on the statuesque woman with the olive skin and deep sea hair as sprays of crimson caught the morning's light. She had already disposed of Ryo's little sister and his friend-rival Robert, and now her attentions were on him. However, Ryo's plans were different.

As Leona ran at him, her head tucked down under her shoulders like a vulture, he focussed the energy of his discipline in his palms and threw a short, seething burst of power at her, with a cry of "Kou-Ou Ken!"

Leona stopped, but not soon enough, and the energy blow hit her across the chest, hurling her backward. She was quick to recover, though, and launched herself at the elder Sakazaki, first kicking his feet out from under him, then driving the honed edges of her stiffened hands into the soft of his shoulders.

Something glistened in Ryo's eyes as she turned her back, showing that she found him no competition, and it was not only the blood bisecting his face. As the clock ticked towards a Time Over, and Leona turned to finish what she had started, Ryo channelled the last of his resources into a flying kick, catching Leona's jaw first with one callused heel, behind which all the power of his leg resided, then with the ball of his other foot, intending to snap her head back and sprain her neck painfully. The pain was there and Leona went down, visibly dizzy, a cut from Ryo's toenail beginning to pool on her chin.

Ryo crouched, preparing to end his assault and the match with a repeat of the Gen-ei Kyaku. Leona showed no signs of stirring, her head in her hands. Sakazaki filled his lungs with life-affirming air, exhaled and charged.

As his feet left the ground, the audience saw Leona kick herself up on her toned, muscular legs, and like a sprung mousetrap, they wrapped around Ryo's chest, then twisted, forcing all air from his body, casting him away deliberately into the dirt, and somersaulting to rest on her high-lacing combat boots. Winded severely, Ryo panted twice, then passed out.

The victor stood tall, her legs trembling, the strain in her eyes hidden behind a curtain of hair and dignity.


	9. Chapter 9

King had never found a match as difficult to watch as she had that between Leona and Ryo. Both switched constantly between being demonic attackers and angelic victims as she stared, blinking only enough to ward off blindness. Observing Leona effortlessly trample her erstwhile team-mate Yuri had been uncomfortable, and had been accompanied by Mai swearing in outraged Mandarin beside her. Seeing Robert humiliated by having his legs paralysed from frequent low attacks was (she admitted) fairly amusing. But watching Ryo get the cytoplasm kicked and slashed out of him reminded her all too cruelly of the unstated feelings between them. She was, at the very moment of Leona's victory ceremony, tensing her knees to keep from running to the fallen Sakazaki, who lay crumpled like a spent parachute.

After the furore was well and truly over, and the crowds were diluted by the promise of evening entertainments, King watched the depleted combatants moving further apart. Ryo walked uncertainly, refusing his team-mates' proffered elbows; Leona skulked towards the nearest hotel entrance, blending into any meagre shadows that she could. If the besuited noblewoman was torn, it was only for the briefest of moments; Ryo had never happened, would never happen, and she should get on with her life away from reminders of a brutish past spent filtering riff-raff from Mr Big's door. She set off at a brisk pace, entering the hotel at an alternate angle with the intent of (she thought with an unavoidable Texan twang) _headin' the filly off at the pass_. Given her familiarity with the place, this was easily accomplished.

She soon heard Leona's footfalls from a perpendicular passage and leaned back against a gold-leaf border, beside a bowl of jasmine in _eau de toilette_. She gave off the manufactured appearance of inspecting a painting on the opposite wall (a pretence made farcical by the sheer mind-numbing banality of the piece).

When Leona made the corner, moving with a lightness that belied her mass, King was hard-pressed not to immediately turn to her, but rather shifted her ersatz attention gradually from the painting, touching her cheekbone for the effect of spontaneity.

"Why _bonsoir_, _ma belle dame. _I –" She cut off as Leona paid her no heed and trod straight past her, in doing so sending a quite jarring sensation through her. _Mon Dieu_, King thought as she felt the supermetabolic heat that rolled off Leona and threatened to daze her. Also, the heady scent that accompanied the wave – as suffocating as a rainforest to an Englishman, sharply sour with the cost of exertion, and somehow sensual like essential oil – caught her so unawares as to make her blink spasmodically, Hugh Grantishly. Not that any of these reactions concerned Leona, who had long left King in her wake, en route to greater solitude.

For but an instant King considered letting her be, going out with her convivial pals and leaving the Amazon to her darkness. _But_, she quipped inwardly, _such could never be the path... for a warrior of light such as myself! _And besides, she had long been an incorrigible meddler, whose profession acted as a plausible smokescreen for her pathology.

The key to their room sat invitingly in her pocket, cooing at her and batting its metallic lashes. Hotel keys were such terrible flirts.


	10. Chapter 10

**AuthorNote: Sorry I've been so long. The last updates were merely me typing out oodles of notes, but now I have to write all new stuff! I hope this was worth the wait…**

* * *

When she unlocked the door to their arbitrarily-selected room, it was to the sound of hurtling water from a high pressure geyser. Passing the bathroom door, left confidently ajar, King allowed her eyes to stray over the perspex curtain. The blurred figure stood tall, one leg out behind the other, shoulders back and chest brought up, face tilted back into the hard spray. She was not, for the moment, moving. And neither was King, the woman realised as she came out of her temporarily glazed state. "_Vieux travesti perverti_," she scolded herself in a mutter. And yet her shame was not significant. Certainly not on a par with her interest.

Shedding her matador-cut jacket and hanging it on the cupboard door, she wondered on a suitably nonchalant pose in which to be discovered. Reading a novel, that was nice and sophisticated. She quickly scanned the small collection in her portable library and selected 'Women in Love' by D.H. Lawrence. She lingered on the possibility that Leona may have never heard of him. Which she might just decide to find charming.

Her eyes were fixedly on the pages of her literature when Leona emerged, a haze in her peripheral vision. The text was becoming a Rorschach Test before her, because the words didn't matter. The hard, tanned body was wrapped in an eggshell blue hotel towel; King saw that much before dropping the book and raising her eyes.

"Feeling better?" She had decided to counter Leona's rudeness with disarming charm and consideration, with the hope that she might eventually be guilted into conversation. Not the noblest of plans, King conceded, but sometimes circumstances dictate like a boss who doesn't like to type his own memos.

By the looks of her, Leona was not surprised to see King there; though she didn't look exactly thrilled either. The slight curl of her lip and the way she looked out from under her dark brows seemed to genuinely query: _Haven't you got anything _better _to do? _Presumably she had been trained to answer direct questions, however, so she did.

"He did not hurt me badly."

King coughed. "Which match were _you _watching? In fact…" Her eyes drifted to Leona's chin, where the long, clean cut was beginning to blush anew after the hot shower. The muscles in her hands moved, wanted to go to the wound, but after barely an inch she caught herself, admonished her presumption. Instead she merely gestured with her head. "He got you, babe."

Unlike most people would do, Leona did not touch her chin in order to check for blood. She did raise her jaw slightly, though, as if to safeguard the carpet.

"You don't waste much time on yourself, do you?" said King, with a blend of dismay and disapproval. She noted that she ought not to pretend that it surprised her.

"Foolish people collect mirrors," the soldier replied proverbially.

"You quoth Heidern."

Leona shook her head. But it was not, King realised, because she disagreed with the statement, but rather that she was scaring excess water from her mane. King looked down at her silk-finish dress shoes.

"Gladly I've never been one for suede."

Surprisingly, Leona became shamefaced at that, casting her large, dark eyes from the shoes to the bathroom.

"Don't worry about it," King assured her. Then, taking off the spotted footwear and crossing her stocking feet on the bed, "Join me in a meditation on the day?"

Because it was not about self and vanity, but rather personal discipline, Leona acquiesced. Mirroring King's position on her own bed, she closed her eyes and let her jaw become slack. (King was momentarily amused at her failed expectation to glimpse a set of predatory canines.) Like a deflating hot air balloon, the tension gradually left her shoulders. This loosened the robe, which slipped down her arms, exposing the relaxed weight of her breasts.

Had King been meditating properly, she would not have noticed it. But, truth be told, she was one who took pleasure in the sight of others in repose; however, since watching non-intimates sleep pushed her boundaries of voyeuristic creepiness to a point where even she found her skin crawling, this was as close as she could get in good conscience.

The breasts were a good decade younger than hers, and had benefited from considerable sunlight and chest training. _But_, King noted, _if she doesn't start using a full-body moisturiser soon, that youthful elasticity in her skin won't last. _Indeed, the creases in the nineteen-year-old's neck and underarms were already showing signs of drought. Her mind daringly took her to a place where she rubbed aloe vera in aqueous cream between her palms to warm it, then gently massaged Leona's trunk, smoothing and spreading with her fingers and kneading with the heels of her hands.

Leona's eyes opened and looked at her with distrust. The deep sigh that had traversed King's fantasy to escape through her lips had been both unbidden and irrepressible. "Oh," she said, thinking with the quick grace and agility of a squirrel, "the spasm in my lumbar vertebrae just released."

Leona's face returned to its default (the android comparison unavoidable) and her eyelids lowered once more. _Plutôt dangereux_, King chided. What was she doing, mixing duty and desire like this? The girl was no Emmanuelle! She was most likely an emotional eunuch, if Heidern had had any say in it. If women could be spayed he would do it, of this she had no doubt. Every one of Leona's taut, honed muscles had gotten that way through the pursuit of stoic excellence. It was conceivable that she could sooner levitate than allow for the selfishness of personal gratification.

_Then why_, King wondered, _do my metaphors for her conflict so? Can she be both she-wolf and automaton? A conundrum._

Her first case-study – for the sake of argument, dubbed Operation: Frock – had revealed little, other than a certain amount of self-loathing. And that was only natural (or unnatural, rather), given her upbringing. So what was the key to the magic box? And what would merely ensure another lock upon it?

She could hear Blue Mary in her head: 'Careful, Kingy-baby, your obsession stocks are rising!' _I just need to know one thing_, she told herself. _Am I doing this because I'm an old roué, or because I feel the stirrings of philanthropy in my grisly little heart?_

This time her sigh was contained within. _Je ne sais pas. Best play it safe._


	11. Chapter 11

The night that passed was an odd one. Leona slept on her back, her head supported in the palms of her updrawn hands, while King, trying to avoid any conceivably suspect glances, lay on her side, facing the wall. It didn't help that Leona's sleeping clothes were a pair of men's army boxers and a lightweight olive tanktop, which together exposed all the perfection of her arms and thighs.

When dawn arrived, still bleary-eyed and peering cautiously over the horizon, King was exhausted. What little sleep she had captured had been fraught with self-recrimination, personified occasionally as her mother, Jeanette-Claire, stiff-lipped and sapphire-eyed in a severe black turtleneck. It was from this woman that she had acquired her strength, grace, and the tendency to second-guess herself, the latter the result of being told, time and again, that fighting against nature was spitting in the eyes of angels. That her positive traits of loyalty and perseverance were being polluted by an embarrassing attraction to perversity. Of course, King herself was ninety-nine percent certain that her mother was wrong on that point.

'_King herself'_… Even in her thoughts, she couldn't bear to call herself by her given name. What was so terrible about it? Well, nothing, apart from the associations she had with the moniker, the memories of weakness, helplessness, frustration… of failing due only to the one part of herself over which she had no influence. So that name, fair, delicate and frail, was banished, even from the _sotto voce _murmurings of her unconscious mind. And she re-christened herself with royal dignity that was equal to any man. True, she could never hope to fully conceal her sex, but she could train herself so that her attitude revealed no relationship with that anatomy. She did not have a hatred of women – quite the opposite! – but she would never again carry the social burden of being one. She supposed she simply lacked the fortitude.

Beautiful, exotic Leona, so elegant in repose, had apparently slept soundly, and continued to do so. Not wishing to disturb her, King crept quietly out of the room, gym bag in hand and a pair of trackpants hastily pulled over her cotton pyjama longs.

The grounds were blessedly quiet. Every so often a bird chirruped, but most sat tucked away, feathers ruffled up around their faces, close and warm with their mates. Little bird hearts beating little bird heartbeats. So fragile. So in danger of stopping.

King took a sharp cold breath of morning, suddenly aware that she was making herself maudlin. Then she noticed that she was not alone in the vicinity (and possibly not alone in her sentiments). Across a shrubbery, on a pale path that circled roses and a sundial, a woman stood with her back to King, swathed in a loose-fitting blouse of white that seemed to absorb the morning's slight chill into itself. Soft black hair hung between her shoulder blades, flawlessly neat despite its length, and secured at the crown by a white silken headband. Although her face was not visible, King had the distinct sense that she had been weeping as she stood there, possibly for a very long time. She stood motionless, and the slow-rising sun caught the gleam of dew that had formed on her shoulders.

What private sorrow could have brought her to linger so, rejecting movement and the human comforts of the indoors?

_On ne me permet pas de demander_, King thought with a mental shrug and a raising of her eyebrows. _Everyone's tragedy is their own tragedy_. So she left the dew-touched woman, apparently oblivious to the advancing day, to continue the ashen vigil for as long as she deemed necessary.


	12. Chapter 12

**This is shorter than I would have liked, but I chose to cut the chapter here so as to get it up before one my watchers left on holiday :)**

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When Mai, Yuri and Kasumi showed up at the gym, King had already done a yogic warm-up, half an hour of kata, twenty minutes versus a punchbag, and a series of weight balancing exercises. She chose to ignore the fact that, with the lack of sleep bogging her down, she was essentially running on adrenaline and was on the cusp of harming herself.

"Oh good, _petit mesdames_, just in time to spar."

Mai, never one for subtlety, greeted her with a shocked look and "Āi yā, King! You look horrible!"

"Thank you. I didn't sleep very well last night."

Kasumi, whose English was still being honed, glanced at her innocently: "Someone you ate?"

That cracked King's grim façade and she chuckled. The thought '_Unfortunately not' _flashed unbidden through her mind before she could feel guilty about it.

"You're staying with Leona, right?" asked Yuri, massaging her neck over her shoulder. King nodded affirmation. "I wouldn't sleep much with her around either – she's kinda _freaky_. Y'know, she looked like she wanted to _kill _me yesterday, not just win the match!"

"It doesn't seem like she's very sportsmanly, does it?" added Mai.

King wondered how to respond to that. What they said was true, yet she felt they were all missing some vital piece of information, that would make sense of the mystery of Leona. What was it, though? "I'm sure she's got her reasons," King murmured into her bottled water.

"Yeah," replied Yuri, "They're called 'El' and 'Loco'!"

"_Oh shut up_," she hissed suddenly, not prepared for the spurt of irritation that rose up in her. Immediately she followed with an apology: "_Je suis __désolée… King est très fatiguée, n'est pas?_ Forget I said that."

Mai was watching her thoughtfully, one arm akimbo, the opposing hand tapping an intrigued finger on her lower lip.

"That's okay," said Yuri. "Ryo says I've been annoying ever since I got _whupped _yesterday. I mean, yeah, we're out, but the competition's not over. And you guys could still win."

"_Hai!_" said Kasumi, tightening her headband. "Come! _Ikkimasu!_"

"Just a moment there, chibi senshi," Mai told her affectionately, noticing the exhaustion that was beginning to hang like velvet curtains in King's eyes. "I just want to borrow Her Highness for a moment. Yuri, run her through a few of Andy's team's attacks, we want to be ready for them." She put a hand on King's shoulder and turned them towards the changerooms, then looked over her shoulder at the two younger girls and winked. "Despite my clever tricks and games, he never tells me anything!"


	13. Chapter 13

Once the door of the girls' locker room had swung closed on its heavy steel hinges, Mai stood before it, as though preventing King's escape, and leaned forward from the waist.

"So now, tell me, who is it, _ba_?"

Somewhat bemused by Mai's behaviour, King's lack of a straight answer had nothing to do with subterfuge. "Who is it that what?"

"Who is it that has the great King, the Noble of Muay Thai, spending sleepless nights?" The question was purely ritual; Mai already knew the answer. A fortune teller had once informed her that she had a nose for romantic intrigue and match-making.

King now attempted a sidestep. "You know me, Mai… there's always some pretty face making me miss my mark. It's why I've had to open a special account with the florist or else risk bankruptcy."

Mai was unswayed. "I've seen your gigolo act, Prince Charming; this isn't it." Her little tanktop bounced once as she flopped down onto a bench, crossing her spandex-clad legs and allowing her fountain of russet to cascade over one shoulder cheekily. "This girl has you in circles. _H__ǎo__ xiào_!"

Her unbarbed teasing brought an acquiescent smile to King's lips. "True enough. But please tell me I'm not blushing like a spring chicken."

"Speaking of 'chicken'… you haven't told her?"

"Good God, no!" The exclamation was as incredulous as it was amused.

"What you scared of?"

"I'm _not _scared. I'm just sensible. She's a very unknown quantity, who can guess _how _she'd react, and with what dangerous repercussions!"

"_B__ù __jīng__ zhī __tán!_"

"It is not. Someone in my position is obliged to be cautious."

"And what position is that, King?" she asked, twisting a lock of her hair around her fingers and lips.

King sat down, suddenly even more weary than before. "You know very well. Honestly, Mai," she turned her head to look square at her team-mate, "you have no clue how easy you have it _ouch!_"

Mai whipped back the paper fan that she had suddenly produced and replaced it in the folds of her sport jacket, as mysteriously as it had appeared. She waved a manicured finger. "No no no, King-King, I won't have you making stupid remarks like that. True, most men want me, and I do enjoy the company of men, but that does not make it easy for me to get my one true love to give me the time of day!"

King bowed her head. "Apologies. How long have you been… courting Andy?"

After a brief pause, she replied: "Three years, two months and twenty-seven days."

"What, no minutes?"

"My watch was broken on the day we met, so I can only guess at a time between one and five o'clock in the afternoon."

"Sorry again."

"All I'm saying is, don't waste time. She's a human being, isn't she?"

"To all apparent observation."

"Then she will appreciate affection, even if she won't or can't show it."

"You seem so certain…"

"I _am _certain. My sisters all call me Dr Shiranui! The only uncertainty is method; how will you tell her?"

"Via long-distance telegram?" King joked hopefully. "But really, Mai, she's a member of Heidern's military unit! She won't have any experience with love, bunnies and fluffy rainbows."

"_Yo_, King," she replied gently, placing one soft, attar-scented hand on the other woman's, "that's why you have to show her."

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1 That's very funny!

2 A fanciful story some weak excuse


	14. Chapter 14

A short sparring session with her friends later, King headed back to her room, feeling lighter. Mai was right, no doubt. Whether or not Leona went along with her thinking, she could not rebuff an offer of care and friendship, at the very least. _Unless, of course_, she admitted, _she finds me unutterably repulsive, n'est pas?_

As she neared the room, she stopped: there was the low rumble of voices, adult male voices, coming from inside. She was somewhat affronted, despite the fact that the room was hers neither by ownership nor full rental. Unsurprisingly, her feelings were, at root, unrelated to issues of accommodation proprietorship.

It did not tax King's volatile imagination too heavily to guess at Leona's visitors; just the thought of Clark and Ralf's mud-strapped boots on the soft floral linen of her hotel bed made her grimace. Her curiosity being what it was, she could not bring herself to break up the party until she had stood a few moments outside the door, listening while pretending to admire yet another mundane piece of hotel art.

"…Says he's satified with your performance." This first voice was Clark's, gravelly and to the point. "He saw the whole thing on satellite." Then Ralf's voice broke in, slightly higher and full of self-possession.

"He's gonna try an' get here by the final, so he says we'd better be in it!" What would Leona say to that? A heartbeat later, the rich alto voice replied: "I won't let him down."

_Zut Alors, _thought King. _Just feel the love in this room!_ She was about to barge in and evict the men from her temporary sanctuary, but Ralf's next words halted her.

"He wants us to keep a close eye on you, Leo. 'Cause we don't want to see you lose it an' go somewhere we can't get you back from."

Something cold formed in King's chest, as though an ice cube had dropped down from her throat and become wedged in her ribcage. What were they talking about?

"I'm fine," Leona told them, with nary a twinge of emotion. "I can control myself."

Now Ralf sounded weary, a tone King had not yet heard from the soldier. "Yeah, well… Just don't say we don't try to give a damn about ya… Whose bed is _this_, anyway?"

King's fears were confirmed, but she steeled herself to not burst into the room and bodily remove them. She needed to hear more.

"A strange French woman."

_That was it? That was how Leona saw her? _

"Huh…" Clark huffed. "Whoever's running this year's tournament has some very funny ideas. Splitting up teams… rooming us with total strangers."

"I think they want to keep the men and women separate for one thing," said Ralf. "Lucky me, I'm sharing with Robert Garcia. He won't stop crying about how he lost the match! I think I'm going to sleep with one eye open, hey, man?"

Clark chuckled with him. Then he turned his attention back to Leona. "We're going to the bar – you coming?"

"Don't be stupid, little girls don't drink!" Ralf joked.

Obviously he grabbed Leona or something, because she let out a cry of "Hey!" It was not the same sound she gave off in combat, but rather one with some indignance in it, though no real anger. It was the sound sisters reserve for troublesome brothers. After a moment, she said in a level voice, "I'm going to train. I'll eat with you later."

Not an ideal family, King reflected, but a kind of family nonetheless. Perhaps Leona was not as woebegone as she had assumed.


	15. Chapter 15

**I truly hope that my watchers enjoy this chapter and that my exhaustion and the jumping nerve in my eyelid did not cause too much degradation in its quality!**

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As she took six steps backward down the passage, King imagined Mai accusing her of becoming a _sneaky sneaky_ ninja. She smiled to herself, then deadpanned as Ralf and Clark came out of the room, focusing on a point in the distance as she strode past them. As expected, they went in the opposite direction and paid her no heed. Once they were out of sight, King doubled back, grinning to herself again at the juvenile intrigue off it all. For some reason, Leona hadn't told them that she was the 'strange French woman' and there was no sense in alerting them to the fact if avoidable. They might make a fuss and inconvenience her before she could suss out the truth behind their and Heidern's concern and the reason for Leona's abrupt arrival.

"Good morning," she said genially. Leona looked up from strapping her wrists.

"You were gone when I woke up."

King was surprised to hear mention of this. "Yes. I went to train."

Leona's gaze cast back down and she made a fist with the hand currently being strapped. "I alarmed you. I expected that."

"Now just a moment, Princess Assumption. It takes more than that to put my nose out of joint. And besides, I was of the impression that you valued your solitude, not so?" She said this as kindly as possible.

Leona was silent for the time it took to finish her task, then to reach for a pair of sturdy olive-green gloves and slip her bound hands into them. Then she made a muffled sound as though to clear her throat. "I have grown accustomed to it…"

King could not say why, but she felt that Leona meant to continue the sentence with '…like a hole in the head' or a similar statement of bitterness. She was beginning to understand something about Leona; something about reaching out and pushing away, about self-imposed isolation and the inability to end it. Something that sparked a pang of recognition in her that felt unpredictably raw, despite the passing of years. And all at once she wanted to kneel beside Leona on the bed and hold her, because all that hard resolve now looked like a very fragile lie.

But King knew better. She knew that the last thing Leona would allow would be sympathy – even if it truly was empathy – and that she would likely push King even further away than when she had received the gift. So instead, she ordered her thoughts sketchily, putting ideas in columns and subcategorising responses. She would wait. She should at least give herself a night of solid sleep before she said or did anything mortifying.

Leona was staring at her now, blinking like a doe, and King realised she had become lost in her extrapolations. And that it had probably turned her visage to tuna casserole.

Even though it was a cartoonish cliché, she shook her head to clear it. "Sorry, I… I went adrift. I… didn't get much rest last night."

Leona's large, dark eyes drank this in. Her indigo mane framed the gaze and in an instant King finally saw the animal Leona had accused herself of being – it wasn't a terrible beast, but a savage beauty, staring out from the dense jungle of her eyes. And from deep in her throat, she spoke: "I'll try."

King missed a beat, then reacted. "Try what?"

Those incomprehensible eyes met hers. "Harder."

It was all she was going to get and King recognised that. Whatever Leona meant, it was somehow encouraging. Whatever it was… it did not translate as '_Leave me alone_' or '_I hate you I hate you I hate you!_'. King had been prepared, on some level, for responses like those.

"Okay," she said. "Thank you for that, Leona Heidern. Would you care to partake of lunch?"

Leona looked suspicious. "With who?"

King bit back the correction of '_That's with _whom_, dear'_ and gave a soft smile. "No one, if you don't feel up to it. But I'm starving and I've heard the hotel makes a delicious avocado wholegrain wrap. Could I tempt you?" She did not quite manage to keep a slight flirtatiousness from her voice at the subtle double entendre. She held her breath.

"Um…" Leona examined the bedclothes beneath her, pulled the material between her thumb and forefinger in deliberation. Then she fixed King with a stern expression: "I'm only going to eat."

King breathed again. "_Mais oui, _of course! Why else would one go to a restaurant?"

"No presents?"

One arm akimbo, the Frenchwoman looked wounded. "Must I give you my Word of Blood, Leona? I am not planning a kidnapping, nor will I spring out of a cake. We're going to eat lunch. And then you're going to go meet your team-mates to train. No?"

The other woman's shoulders showed that she acquiesced. Under those conditions only, though, said her face. And King wondered to herself: _God strike me down if I foul up this time_…


	16. Chapter 16

**I've been sitting on this chapter for days, trying to think out the course of things, so I hope what eventually spewed forth rings true for everyone. Remember: baby steps, people. That's what it's all about.**

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The restaurant was called, in an astonishing act of Westernphilia, _La Vita __Bella_, and was panelled in varnished rosewood. Even at the heat of the day it felt cool and ordered, the bleach-blonde waiters standing with artificial ennui and the napkins folded crisply into birds on every table. It was, King decided, far too nice a place for many of the tournament's participants. Clearly the corporate sponsors weren't pulling any punches on this one. 

Leona had dressed herself in a pair of worn but immaculate black slacks and another of her ubiquitous green tank tops; she looked every bit the sleek, delicious athlete. King was dizzily smitten just letting her eyes slide over the sinews of her neck and shoulders, and hid it by spending long moments sipping her tall Pimm's No.1.

For the first time that day, her mind drifted back to her brother, still bed-ridden but recovering at the family home in Toulouse, and an elastic band of guilt snapped tightly against her throat. _Jan_. Surely there were more important things to do than play Casanova with shell-shocked sociopaths? There was poor room-bound Jan, so used to throwing himself through the pink bricked streets of _la __Ville Rose_, now forced to endure daily check-ups by his aunt Sara and watch his tanned complexion turn to oatmeal, while his jet-setting sister enjoyed the sweet life of a celebrity sportsperson. _For shame_, said a voice in her head not unlike her mother's. _For _shame, _neglecting your family in favour of hollow, perverse pursuits of lust!_

Well… could she have brought him here? Hired someone to look after him while she kicked the living daylights out of people? Could she – the image prodded at her mind's eye – have wheeled him into this restaurant, ignoring the barely veiled distaste of the waiters, and expected him to enjoy himself?

She could just imagine how he would react: politely he would greet everyone "Bonjour", cheerily he would light up his face to please his big sister, and then, while he thought she wasn't looking, he would hunch his shoulders up, gripping the edges of the chair, and steel nervous glances to the right, to the left, to the pretentious reproductions high on the walls behind her. He would pull half of his lower lip under his teeth and gnaw at it, never focussing on one thing for too long, his eyes fitful like a debutante in a room full of suitors.

And then King saw it: _Leona_. Where she had pretended to casually rest her hand, she made small, deliberate motions with her index fingernail, wearing away infinitesimally at the grain of the wood. Her other hand gripped the red leather menu, and although she appeared at first glance to be deciding on her meal, in actuality her eyes bore straight through the laminated pages, merely using them as a shield against conversation. The olive skin had turned yellow with tension at her knuckles, and her chest allowed just one tight breath to pass when it was deemed absolutely necessary. If King were to make an entirely uninformed medical diagnosis, she would say Leona was on the brink of a panic attack.

Acting with more intuition than thought, King extended a cool hand and placed it over Leona's that was assailing the table. The flesh was over-heated and clammy, and King gently touched her thumb to her fingers in Leona's palm. The shock in Leona's face came almost instantaneously, though she made no other moves to react, merely gaping open-mouthed at King's boldness.

"Leona," she said kindly, "Don't fret so." King's face tilted slightly as she gave what she hoped was a reassuring smile. "I am not trying to trick you, nothing bad is going to happen. I just want to eat lunch with you. But if you'd like to leave… if you're feeling too claustrophobic… you won't hurt my feelings. I understand feeling trapped."

Leona was taking deep nasal breaths, her eyes still wide and beginning to glimmer. King could not decide if it was terror, fury or some other overwhelming feeling that danced in her vision. Their hands, though, had not changed position, Leona's seemingly drained of strength as it lay there in King's delicate grip; she felt as though she were holding a fledgling, distantly cautious not to harm it.

_Non_… _What are you doing? She's going to run away forever now! _King did her best to keep these thoughts from manifesting on her face. _Non…non…non…_

"No…" Leona's voice came from far away. Her breathing had slowed and she forced herself to look squarely at King. "No… I'll… stay. I think I just need some water."

Then something happened that made King's heart stumble. Could she have imagined it? Was it just the result of her own arm movement? Surely that was it. Because otherwise, almost imperceptivity, before withdrawing and signalling one of the haughty waiters to attention with a wave and a nod, Leona had exploded all expectations and returned the pressure on her hand.


	17. Chapter 17

The meal ran smoothly from then on, King ordering the dish she had used as her prerequisite for coming and Leona having a roast vegetable side plate with rye bread. Pleasingly, the food well justified its extravagant pricing and left a lingering spice of wellness in their palettes. Although neither spoke beyond polite requests for condiments, the silence they shared seemed, at least to King, wonderfully peaceful. Leona even kindly pretended not to notice the lingering glances she gave her.

Charmed into a bowl of Italian ice-cream by a particularly tenacious waiter, King toyed with the dessert spoon and the thought of trying one of the oldest 'bits' in romantic history. Like all classics, it was both effective and ostensibly innocent.

A precise spoonful of Neapolitan made the decision for her. "_Mm, juste lá_! Leona, you must try it, your tastebuds will worship you!"

Leona threw her a skeptical glance, as though no mere sweet could be _that _good. Yet she moved her head forward in an attitude of anticipation.

King made a brief but quasi-valiant search for another spoon on the table; finding none, she shrugged and extended her own, containing a soft little mound of white and pink. "_E__cco un poco_," she said in playful Italian.

Never taking her vigilant eyes off King, Leona moved to intercept the spoon with her lips. Then they slid away and King watched with contained glee as the treat soaked into her tongue. She knew she had won when, involuntarily, the woman closed her eyes and a wide, genuine smile appeared on her face. It was the most beautiful sight King could have imagined, and she tucked it away in her mental art gallery for later enjoyment.

But at that very moment that was so steeped in buttery contentment, something forced its way into her sensual awareness and her head whipped up. It took a trained ear, someone intimately familiar with the concept, to be able to sense it coming like a subtle perfume. But she recognised its timbre instantly and discerned that it was nearing.

The sound of wealthy power.

It tinkled with carefree laughter and the tinny impact of expensive jewellery against expensive jewellery. It purred with the brushing of rare fabrics. With well-heeled shoes, it tapped out a confident tattoo upon the flagstones outside the restaurant.

Those who envied power bitterly were well-honed to this sound also, and thus King observed the none-too-subtle turning of waiters' heads; like tailored, overpaid meerkats, their pointed profiles poked out of shirt-collars. It was possible that they felt the approaching vibrations in the air, and their alertness informed the duller beings among them that something was stirring.

King realised that her heart had sped up, and was thumping insistently against her rib-cage. She knew the flavour of this power. Somehow, she knew it. But before she could consciously examine the perception, its source swaggered with seismic impetus through the doors.

The group was solid like a Roman tortoise-formation, the most important members ringed by a small legion of beautiful women, wielding technicolour nails, shining teeth and gleaming, autumnal manes. But unlike the traditional military formation, those in the centre stood a good foot higher than their protectors, surveying the territory as they were born forth.

By far the tallest was a Teutonic man with stern eyes and the follicular propensities of Hulk Hogan. His masonry-like form was wrapped somewhat bizarrely in a deep blue linen suit, fastened at the neck by a crimson string tie. Beside him, next in height, was the smoothly-waxed brunneous cranium of a man whose cool demeanour suggested that he indulged in frequent and lackadaisical cruelty. The windows to what soul he may have had were shaded by Rayban and he was draped in robes whose trimming was most definitely not made with synthetic fibres. Merely a slight bit lower, and on the tallest's other side, a man wearing traditional Japanese formal clothing – a white montsuki kimono and burgundy hakama – strode with a grimness that matched the severe cut of his blonde hair and his chiselled cheekbones and set jaw.

It was a trio whose very existence should have been impossible, due to the quantum force of each man's own ego, yet here they stood, clearly compadres, if reluctantly so. And the aura of quiet menace that surrounded them gave many of those present the urge to scratch at their skin or search for fire exits. For King, it recalled memories of which she had hoped to purge herself. Of a time when she let herself get lost in the mindless brutality of her role, rather than taking a stand for her own principles. Though it had not been all bad; had she not been ordered into that particular conflict, she would have never met Yuri and Ryo. The circumstances under which the two of them had forgiven and embraced her were mindboggling, and really spoke volumes about the goodness inherent in the Sakazakis.

Be that as it may, in the presence of her old employer, King felt decidedly bristly. She leaned into her coffee, shading her face with hair and hand, and hoped he would somehow not notice her. A brief look revealed that Leona too was bridling; she was giving off the same body language that alpha hounds do when an interloper strolls arrogantly towards their territory. This amused King a little, bearing in mind that not long ago Leona would conceivably have seen the place go up in flames without much concern. Something had shifted there. But she wasn't given the chance to decide what.

"_Kingy-baby_…"

Her heart leapt, and she lowered her head further, ignoring this deceptively relaxed voice and hoping to convince it that she was someone else.

"Ring-a-_ding_-King," said the velvety tone, as a hand like leather-gloved murder settled on her shoulder. "Don't tell me you've forgotten about ol' Mister B!"

Trying to keep the fear from her face and the flinch from her shoulder, King slowly turned in her seat and tilted her head back to regard Geese Howard's right hand man and the most ambitious mobster in Southtown history. "Big… hi… It's been… a very long time."

Mr Big chuckled, deep in his throat, and let his hand slide from King's shoulder, withdrawing like a cat about to start playing with its prey. "It _has_, kid. It truly has. But I see you haven't changed a bit. Still lookin' like a mama's boy, holdin' in the fear."

Cold shot through King's forehead as the familiarity of this hit her. Yes. Always. This was what he did. He knew where it hurt, and he liked to see it hurt. That's how he got his power. But that time was supposed to be over, and despite what he said, she felt that she _had _changed. She was no one's flunky. She didn't jump. She didn't let people rile her up and provoke her into violence she would later regret. Not this time.

With a voice that was as level as she could manage, she replied. "Well, you know? It has been a while. Maybe looks are deceiving after all this time."

Quick, like breathe in the wind, his tactic changed direction and he pulled up a chair, stylishly dropping it beside Leona and sliding into a languid sitting position. "Well hey, who do we have here? Some kinda hot crazy lady, Kingy? And how! Say precious –" he extended his hand to clasp at Leona's, bringing it up to his lips. "What you say to hangin' out with a _real _man. After all…" He turned his head to look at the gaggle of ladies that Geese and Krauser had seated around them at the table the waiters had so hastily furnished. "All kinds of pretty can't be wrong!"

Leona's eye burned and she dropped her head, indigo fringe flopping forward. Slowly, ever so carefully, so withdrew her hand from Big's and placed it in her lap. "No. Thank you." Her tone was warning him, quite plainly. But Mr Big didn't care about boundaries; on the contrary, it excited him to break through them.

As he leaned in toward Leona's ear, his attention was on King and he whispered in such a way that she could hear every word from across the table. "I don't know if you've noticed yet, babe, but… that's a big ol' _girl _sitting across from you in her sweet threads. Ain't nothing waitin' for you there. She's just one angry, bitter piece of confusion and thrown-away dreams. But me… baby, I know every inch of a woman the right way." With his eyes, he told King: _That's what you are, and that's why you'll never get anyone to love you. You're a joke, and I'll be laughing at you when I've taken this one away too._

"_No!_" King had leapt to her feet and had both hands palm-down on the table where they had slapped down in violated indignation. She knew Leona would never let Mr Big touch her, but that was not the point. She was tired of being played for the fool in this production. But neither was she going to play the blustering, unthinking hero whose passions put him at a disadvantage. No, she would tackle this calmly. But she was _not _going to be mocked. However much it was clearly all with a view to rattle her.

"_Monsieur_," she said slowly, garnering the memories of her family and its pedigree to her breast and raising her chin. "Your behaviour is insulting. And as I no longer owe anything to you or your associates, I will take my leave. And you will let me go, as well as the lady you are tormenting with your unwelcome attention." Her voice had taken on the same aloof, chilled tone that her mother used, and its effectiveness did not go unnoticed.

Mr Big gave her a cheeky smirk, but it was the expression of an arrogant man being forced to withdraw for the moment. He sprawled back in his chair and flipped his open hand in a dismissive gesture. "Kingy-baby, you've gotten so hostile in your old age… I hope you're gonna buy me a drink to make up for this next time we meet."

Pretending to ignore him, King inspected her black suede wallet and removed two new bills, which she placed under the edge of her dessert plate. She then sought a direct link with Leona's gaze, which she achieved, and a little bit of her weakness spilled over into it, telling Leona everything she could about how embarrassing and wrong she found all this, and how sorry she was. It also implored her for another chance to make good, as this was clearly not her fault.

A blink and the coldness returned for Mr Big's benefit. "A man like you can buy his own drinks. I will thank you not to imagine there exists any sort of friendship between us."

With that, she held a hand out to Leona – which shook, though not visibly – and took her leave. She did not look back, but released the breath in her throat when she heard Leona fall into step just behind her. She slowed so that they were walking side by side, trying to hit a casual pace, and she saw that Leona was frowning over her shoulder, back at the table where Geese Howard and Wolfgang Krauser sat, smugly watching their departure. A dizziness was stifling her head and she yearned for fresh air. Luckily, the atmosphere outside was composed of just that and she was able to fill her grateful lungs.

They walked in now fretful silence until they had rounded the hotel and stood by the deserted rear garages. Then King allowed herself to stop and collapsed back against the concrete wall. Her vision swum and she brought up a hand to her forehead, trying not to gasp.

Leona was standing by, the stance her military's at-ease. She was, King realised, treating her like a commanding officer. Waiting for orders. Perhaps that little display of control at the table had impressed her as much as it had Mr Big. A shame it left King feeling so disappointed in herself. She should not have gotten flustered at _all_, as she saw it. She should have been able to preserve the occasion. But then… Big hadn't been Geese's choke-hold man for nothing. He could suck the courage from a person just by smiling at them. She could have done worse, that considered. A _lot _worse.

She swallowed and spoke, "Leona…"

The soldier gave King her full attention.

"I'm sorry that happened. I promised you a quiet lunch, but who _knew _The Three Horsemen of the Apocalypse were going to party crash? At any rate, I apologise. I hope training with your friends goes better."

Leona observed her wryly, unfamiliar amusement twinkling in her eyes. "Don't apologise. It was a sneak attack."

King was amazed and let a smile bloom on her face. "Thank you…. I appreciate that."

Leona nodded as though saluting and turned to leave. But before she did, her back to King, she gave her a present. "Gigolo… I'll eat with you again."


	18. Chapter 18

King lay on her back in Blue Mary's room, staring up at the ceiling from her position on the floor. Her American friend was sitting nearby, crosslegged and impatient.

"Well? Are you going to tell me, or do I have to start playing twenty questions?"

King uncrossed her ankles and then recrossed them in variation. "Tell you what?"

"Oh, um, gee… I dunno, like maybe why you look like a freshman who just got to talk to someone super-dreamy!"

King's head lolled towards her. "I do?"

"There's definitely a sweet sixteen vibe going on, yeah."

King laughed and threw herself up so that her torso was resting against one updrawn knee. "How mortifying for me…" The look on her face, though, belied that statement.

"Oh _no_," said Mary, suddenly excitable. "You _didn't_!"

King gave her a vaguely reprimanding glance, paired with a lopsided grin. "No, I didn't. I'm good, but I'm _that _good. Not a miracle-worker. Still…" The faraway countenance returned and Mary harrumphed.

"Well who would have thought it. So she hasn't tried to disembowel you like she did your ex, Captain Cuddles?"

King's expression went hilariously askew. "And that nickname is apropos of _what_, exactly?"

"Oh the hair, his cuddly bear persona, you know. Anyway, answerez-vous!"

King ignored her appalling quasi-French and responded with a shrug. "I think the trick is not to provoke her, or to fall into her depiction of herself as a blood-hearted lycanthrope. I think once you insist on treating her like a decent human being…"

"Or a sexy, sexy love-bunny."

Another askance stare. "You're _really _in top form today."

"I had sugar. Continue!"

"Well, I think there's a possibility that she may begin to see her own worth too. And maybe then…"

Mary beamed broadly, as though containing an explosion within her chest. "And _then…_"

King backhanded her gently across the shoulder. "Oh shut up! I'll say it again, you're becoming a Bogard!"

Mary narrowed her eyes wickedly. "You loooove her."

"Quiet."

"You _loooove _her! You _looooove _her! You want her to have your _bay-bies_!" The improvised ditty culminated with Mary launching into a seated dance, while King covered her face with both palms and laughed with an ease she hadn't felt for some time.


	19. Chapter 19

"You know, Baby," said the tall dark man with no eyes as he leaned against the shadowed wall of the hotel gymnasium. "If you're gonna walk around barefoot in a slaughterhouse… you're gonna leave lots of red footprints."

Leona was still in mid-step. Her hackles had risen, but she was still without sufficient information to plan her next move. If the man who was named after his sheer bulk and power to intimidate chose to attack her, her best decision would no doubt be to defend and escape. If his only intention was to taunt, or perhaps attempt to rile her, then he should be ignored. Then again, there loomed the possibility that he was not in fact alone.

She had made the decision that it would be preferable to avoid entering into dialogue with him. Taking light cat steps away on rubber soles, she waited to see hear the intention in his voice.

"Little Lost Lion," he called again, "Leo-Leo-Lion…"

_Ignore it. _It was easy. He was nothing to her. They had no history; none of Leona's weaknesses could be traced back to his hands. He had nothing on her. No one here did. Only her father and teammates even knew what she really was. And they suffered it in silence, being associated with a monster in a woman's skin. This man, this… 'Big' man… he had nothing to shake in her face.

"My midnight pussycat… tell me…" and his voice deepened to a rolling rumble. "Does she let you run your claws down her back?"

_Quiet_. _It's a trick._

"Does she rub behind your ears and stroke your tail?"

_Shut up. Leave me alone. She's not… I wouldn't_…

"She's curious, y'know… curious about you… and that's dangerous."

Leona's fingers curled tightly, nails pressing into her palms. It wasn't the goading, it was something else… a sense of a sudden shift in the atmosphere.

"Unfortunately," said Big, an impersonation of regret fluttering in his words, "that means..."

Leona spun around. Standing with him were Wolfgang Krauser and Geese Howard. The air around them crackled with anticipation of movement. Big strolled nonchalantly forward to stand between them. A smile licked at his face.

"It means that you get skinned."

Leona didn't have time to pry apart the mixed metaphors.


	20. Chapter 20

Her battered though conscious body was carried the entrance of the hotel suite and left there. Around her neck hung a bell. Severely winded, she could not drag herself to her feet. In their intelligent cruelty, they had not touched her face. Their precision left evidence that only an intimate would see. And when King returned to fetch a jacket for the crispness of the evening, she felt more than saw the depths of their violence.

All through the night, pain beat a tattoo on the drum of Leonas's body. Low guttural grunts and groans were punctuated with sharp, high-pitched intakes of breath. In the minimal moonlight filtering through the hotel room curtains, King could make out Leona's silhouette as these sounds contorted it. First it would roll, then stop suddenly, jerking. Then slowly roll back, squirming and undulating. It had been hours since she had tentatively lifted Leona up, helped her into the room and pulled her onto the bed. The sun had set while she unstrapped the heated boots and peeled off her socks and gloves. Too long she had said nothing while King pulled her hair out of its noose and taken a cool cloth to Leona's forehead. Guilt was fist full of razors in her belly. She found that her hand was clamping her weak lips, found that her tears were being caught in the dips at her knuckles.

_Why, Leona? _She wondered dizzily. _You're supposed to be the demonlady, n'est pas? Nothing should be able to hurt you. How could you _allow_ someone to _hurt_ you?_

Realising then that her anxiety was causing her to cast aspersions where none were due, she hung her head in the darkness, sighing deeply. _Soldier. You try to be an army of one._

The truth of this thought touched her deeply, and before she could stop herself she was standing and making her way across five feet of carpet to where Leona slept and quaked. Gingerly she felt for a clear path first on hands then on knees, and skirted Leona until she lay against the wall behind her. Then, her hand trembling for its own reasons, she reached over to touch. A back. A shoulderblade. Whatever she could find in the dim circumstances.

What she found was an angularly curved spine, curled to protect whatever injury lay on the other side. Through Leona's nightshirt, King's fingers brushed erect vertebrae that stood to attention for their tyrant general. She followed these up and down again, marveling that they didn't pierce right through Leona's skin and the fabric of the shirt. Then she flattened her palm when a spasm sprang across Leona's back and made her arch violently and complain wordlessly. Faster than good sense could restrain her, King lurched forward and hugged the other woman from behind, wrapping her arms around Leona's stomach and pressing her cheek against Leona's nape. She held her tightly but carefully, not certain of where the injuries lay. Before she knew it, she was whispering wisps of regional French reassurance into the thick dark hair. Leona couldn't possibly understand it, but that was not King's concern. She had to quietly say these things.

Then the Frenchwoman startled as she felt fretful hands grasp her own, hold them. Leona said nothing, but her terrible shuddering had lessened. King's heart pounded hard in her ears, as she awaited the recriminations that she felt certain were to come. But they did not. Instead, Leona drew up her legs, becoming partially foetal, and pressed herself back against King. It could have been an unconscious thing, King told herself. A reflex action, a response to warmth, to the promise of physical comfort. It could be that Leona would remember none of it when she awoke, though she might feel the remnants of solace lingering somewhere within her. It could also be that she was fully conscious but that she preferred to have that fact kept unconfirmed. All these things King thought and dismissed as unimportant, as she cradled Leona and surrounded her.


	21. Chapter 21

It could have been that she had remembered none of it when she had awakened. It was not so.

Leona forced herself to jog through the unexpected dry heat of the morning, ignoring the shoot of pain that occasionally bolted up from her rib-cage, or the ache in her ankles when she hit the gravel at the wrong angle.

For some reason, this had all suddenly become personal. These people, the thugs in gentlemen's clothing, had involved her in something inbred and unsavoury, entirely without her consent. How was it that she could be targeted merely for agreeing to lunch? Was King _really _that mad, bad and dangerous to know?

She shook her head, her tied mane thrashing about, little water droplets fleeing and evaporating. It was heavy because she had irresponsibly tied it up while it was still wet from her hasty shower. She hadn't wanted to risk being seen. King was either asleep or pretending to be asleep when she had emerged, and that was fortuitous, because she needed to clear her head before she was questioned. Naturally the details would need to be divulged, and no doubt King would be hit with guilt over the matter.

Who _was _this woman, and _why _was she both so compelling and so repulsive?

Leona was used to men. To guns and training and night-time manoeuvres. To women who stood stiffly in blue uniforms, saluting and then returning to their desks to initiate paper warfare. But she had never met anyone like King. Softly-spoken yet earnest, strong yet sophisticated, she was not so much enigmatic as difficult to compartmentalise.

Her thoughts were scattered like startled pigeons when another jogger appeared suddenly at her side; clearly her deep contemplation had kept her from hearing the approaching feet. Her heart had gulped for the briefest of moments when the memory flashed of what unexpected company had recently meant, but the palpitation stilled once she recognised the sturdy but diminutive jogger as the friend that King had been sitting with before. She wore large pants of parachute material, a fitted olive tank top with a pseudo-military star design, and a blue sweat band pulling her pale hair away from her damp forehead.

"Hey-ya, how's it going?"

Leona watched her for a moment, not slowing her pace and unsure of what she should do in the situation. One of the shortcomings that she had begun to recognise in herself was her difficulty with small talk.

"All right… the weather isn't very—"

"I know, right?" the flaxen-haired female interrupted buoyantly. "I didn't see that coming. So you're the General's daughter, huh? That's gotta be something else. I can't imagine it myself. Always going from place to place in uniform, all _serious_. I mean, like, if it was _me_, I'd probably start laughing halfway through standing at attention and get my head cracked in!" As though illustrating her point, she started giggling. The behaviour was unsettlingly forward to Leona, coming from someone she didn't even know. The woman was treating her like some kind of local celebrity! Was this King's doing?

"It's okay, don't feel like you have to chat, I'm just a ball of sunshine this morning! I'm Mary Ryan, by the way. I hang with the Bogard bros from South Town."

"Pleased to meet you," Leona managed.

"Likewise. So anyway, I'm just training up in case they need me to sub for someone this tournament. You never know, someone runs into a wall or drops a weight on their foot or whatever—" she lets off a little whoop of amusement, "And suddenly I'm in the game! But I guess you know all about that, huh? Sorry, I missed your name. Layla, was it?"

"Leona…"

"Ah, that's pretty. Well, see ya, Leona! Do your best!"

And with that, she jogged off on a separate path that doubled back the way they'd come. Leona let out a little sigh; that had been so exhausting, though she couldn't say why. It felt almost as though she were being interrogated, though the woman – Mary – had barely asked her anything. So strange.

She reached a small park with grassy squares and benches shaded with imported trees, interwoven by pebbled pathways. She wiped a forearm across her forehead, squinting a little in the heat; it was definitely time for a break, especially considering that her bruised body was complaining to the degree that even she had to acknowledge it.

She sat on a small incline below some manner of poplar tree and removed her shoes with relief. She then noticed a half-dried banana plant leaf beside a partially-socked foot, and picked it up, using it as an effective makeshift fan.

The park was almost deserted, with only a middle-aged businessman absorbed in his PDA sitting on one of the benches, and a long-haired Japanese woman in jeans and a kimono-styled blouse standing lonely and pale as she peered endlessly into a pond.


	22. Chapter 22

Blue Mary smothered a grin with the side of a purple fingerless glove, and knocked on the door of King's suite. The ensuing wait was long enough that she was just raising her fist to try again when the lock clicked open. King's face went from nervous to somehow let down in an instant upon seeing her.

"Sorry," said Mary, "I'm not her. But we did hang out a bit."

King leaned tiredly against the doorframe, one hip dropped and her shoulders sagging. She had clearly only recently gotten dressed, as a towel was draped around her neck, protecting her shirt collar from getting damp. "I'm really not feeling that chipper right now. Forgive me, but could I ask that you cut to the chase?"

Mary didn't take offense; she knew that her friend's words were for the sake of brevity, not spite. Her tone changed, sacrificed some of its gaiety for sincerity. "Sure. I thought I'd see what she was about, so I found her jogging down past the plaza. She's got something crawlin' around in her head, that's for sure. Barely said a word."

"That's more or less standard," King admitted.

"Yeah, but I think there's something weighing on her, more than the whole 'oh I'm so horrible, don't come near me' thing. She looked a bit achy too."

King's mouth flinched, a little spasm on its left. "I know. She got beat up last night."

"_What?_ What the hell?"

"I think it was Big. He saw us having lunch and I blew him off. It looks like he's getting back at me by hurting her." Her eyes showed that it was working.

"That's terrible! Have you spoken to her about it?"

"No, I let her leave without trying. I don't know, I just… I feel awful for drawing her in with sweet words and then getting her involved in stupid, ancient _fights_." She frowned and observed the doorframe above, curling her lip in irritation. "It's hardly how I wanted to go about this…"

"What?"

"This 'plan', I suppose. My grand… seduction?"

"You're really gonna look at it that way?"

"That _is_ what it _looks_ like."

"Or what your ol' boss said to you?"

King pointed her free hand at Mary, stopped inches from her nose. "Careful, you. I told you, I'm not in a fine mood."

Mary gave her an affectionate smile and pushed the hand away. That little show of humour was enough to keep her worries at bay. But still, the detective in her wanted to know more about all this. "Do you mind if I keep an eye on things? On the two of you guys? I can be subtle, and I don't want any more of this sort of thing going on."

King gave her a thankful nod. "I'd appreciate that. Do you want to come in? The paper just arrived ten minutes ago."

"Let's get coffee instead," Mary countered. She reached over to grab the wrist that King had up against the wall, gave her an impish grin. "You can bring your paper with you if you want."


End file.
